Chapter 3 Katya
KATYA
Someone kicks the door open at six in the morning, and the crash of wood against the wall yanks me out of a half-sleep that never felt restful.
I jerk upright, my back screaming from the hours spent slumped against the wall, and Dimitri is standing in the doorway with a scowl on his face as he bends to pick up my bag.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't offer an explanation.
He turns and walks out, and somehow, I know I'm supposed to follow.
I push myself to my feet, my legs stiff and uncooperative, and stumble after him into the hallway.
The fluorescent lights overhead are too bright, and I have to squint against them as I trail him through the building.
My mouth tastes sour, and I'm acutely aware of how filthy I feel, the sweat from last night dried on my skin, my clothes wrinkled and smelling faintly of hay and my own body odor.
Damn bastard didn't even have the decency to give me a room with a toilet or shower, let alone a bed.
He leads me outside into the training yard, where four men are already gathered near the equipment shed.
They turn to watch as we approach, and I feel their eyes crawling over me.
I keep my chin up, refusing to look away, even though my stomach is churning.
Dimitri stops in the center of the group and drops my bag on the ground between us.
The canvas hits the dirt with a dull thud, and I scoff at the way he treats my only possessions in the whole world like a bag of trash.
"Open it," he says.
I don't move.
"Why?"
"Because I told you to."
His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion, and he glares at me with such hostility it makes my hands shake.
The small bag is all I have in this world, my few belongings and a pendant my mother gave me when I was small.
The rest of my "life" is in a random hostile somewhere across town, the place I found that was cheap enough to call home for a few days.
I crouch down and unzip the bag, pulling the flaps open.
My hands are shaking, and I hate that he can see it, that all of them can see it.
Dimitri steps forward and crouches beside me, and before I can react, he's reaching into the bag and pulling things out one by one.
My set of lockpicks wrapped in cloth.
He tosses them aside.
A fake ID with a name that isn't mine and a photo that barely resembles me.
He holds it up to the light, studying it, and then he reads the name aloud.
"Oksana Belov." He glances at me with cold eyes. "That you?"
"No."
"Then what's your real name?"
I hesitate, and his jaw tightens.
He drops the fake ID and digs deeper into the bag, pulling out a crumpled stack of metro tickets, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, and a small leather pouch that I know contains the last of my cash.
He opens the pouch and counts the bills quickly, then pockets them without comment.
I want to protest, but the words die in my throat.
I find myself kneeling, knees pressing into the hard ground as he continues.
His hand closes around something and pulls it out, and when he opens his palm to show it, I almost snatch it away.
It's small, tarnished silver on a thin chain, and it's been with me for as long as I can remember.
It's one of the few things my mother didn't pawn or lose during our years of moving from place to place.
I don't even know if it means anything, but it's mine, and seeing it in his hand makes my chest knot.
"Give that back," I snap, swiping at his hand, but he keeps it out of my reach.
He doesn't look at me.
He turns the pendant over in his palm, examining it, and then he slips it into his pocket. "No."
"That's mine."
"Everything in this bag is mine now."
He stands and kicks the bag toward one of the men, who picks it up and slings it over his shoulder.
"You don't own anything here. Not your tools, not your money, and not whatever sentimental trash you've been carrying around. You're going to earn it back if you want it."
I rise to my feet, fury burning through my chest, but before I can say anything, he moves closer and lowers his voice so only I can hear.
"Don't push me. You won't like what happens if you do."
The men are watching us, their expressions ranging from curious to hostile, and I know he's right.
Challenging him here, in front of his crew, will only make things worse.
So I swallow the anger and nod once, tightly, and he steps back.
"What's your real name?" he asks again, louder this time, and while I know I could give him a false name, there's no point.
Men like the Vetrovs find everything out one way or another.
"Katya Volsky."
"Good. Now you're going to work, Katya."
He turns to the men and gestures toward the stables.
"Put her in the stalls. I want them mucked out by noon."
One of the men comes forward, a wiry guy with a sunburned face and a sneer that doesn't fade when he looks at me.
"You want her doing grunt work?"
He chuckles and raises one corner of his mouth higher.
"I want her doing whatever I tell her to do. If she complains, let me know."
Dimitri doesn't wait for a response.
He walks away, leaving me standing there with the men, and I feel the burden of their attention settle over me.
The wiry one moves closer, jerking his head toward the stables.
"You heard him. Let's go."
I follow him across the yard, and the other men disperse, returning to whatever tasks they were doing before I arrived.
The stables loom ahead, and I can already smell the thick, pungent odor of manure and wet straw.
My stomach turns, but I force myself to keep walking.
Inside, the air is stifling, and the horses shift restlessly in their stalls.
The wiry man stops at the first one and points to a pitchfork leaning against the wall.
"Start here. Muck it out, haul the waste to the pile behind the building, and lay down fresh straw. Don't stop until you're done with all of them."
"How many stalls are there?" I ask, looking up the long aisle toward the other horses.
"Sixteen." He grins, and all I see is his disgusting teeth. "Better get moving."
He leaves me there, and I pick up the pitchfork.
I unlatch the first stall and step inside, and the horse—a chestnut gelding—snorts and sidesteps away from me.
I murmur soothing sounds, though I'm not sure if it's for him or for me, and I start shoveling.
The work is brutal.
Each stall is worse than the last, the floors thick with soiled bedding that has to be scraped and lifted and hauled outside in buckets that are too large and too awkward to carry comfortably.
My arms ache within the first hour, my back screams by the second, and sweat drips into my eyes, blurring my vision.
The men come and go, checking on me periodically, and I know they're waiting for me to try to run.
I want to, don't get me wrong, but I won't leave that pendant in Dimitri Vetrov's possession.
So I have to do whatever it takes to get it back.
And then I swear the first thing I'm going to do is call home to Perm where my mother lives and tell her I'm sorry for vanishing and never saying goodbye.
By midday, I've finished half the stalls, and my hands are blistered and raw.
I'm leaning against the wall outside, trying to catch my breath, when one of the stable hands walks past me.
He's older, with a thick neck and a gut that spills over his belt, and he doesn't bother to hide his contempt as he looks me over.
"Move," he says, shoving past me.
I stumble but catch myself, and the anger flares in my chest again.
"Watch it!" I snap.
He stops and turns, his eyes narrowing.
"What did you say?"
"I said watch it."
I straighten up, meeting his gaze, and I know it's a mistake even as the words leave my mouth.
He takes a step toward me, his hand rising, and I brace myself.
But before he can reach me, another voice cuts through the air.
"Touch her, and I'll break your arm."
Dimitri is standing a few paces away, his arms crossed, with a stern expression.
The stable hand freezes, his hand still raised, and then he lowers it slowly.
He glances at Dimitri, then at me, and his face twists with resentment.
"She's in the way," he mutters.
"Then walk around her."
Dimitri's tone is calm, but there's a finality to it that makes the stable hand back off.
He turns and walks away, muttering under his breath, and I'm left standing there with Dimitri watching me.
"Get back to work," he says, and then he's gone, disappearing around the corner of the building.
I stand there for a moment, my heart pounding, and I realize that what he did wasn't kindness.
It was ownership.
He stopped the man not because he cared about me, but because I belong to him now, and his men know no one else is allowed to touch me without his permission.
The thought makes my skin crawl, but it also settles something in my chest.
I know where I stand.
I know the rules, even if I hate them.
I pick up the pitchfork and go back to the stalls.
By late afternoon, I'm barely upright.
My legs are trembling, my hands are bleeding through blisters, and I've lost count of how many times I've hauled buckets of waste to the pile behind the building.
One of Dimitri's men—not the wiry one, someone else—appears in the doorway and tells me to follow him.
I don't ask where we're going. I'm too tired to care.
He leads me across the yard to a small office near the main gate.
Inside, there's a desk piled high with papers, and he hands me a sealed envelope.
"Take this to the surveillance room. You know where that is?"
I shake my head.
He sighs and gives me directions, pointing toward the far side of the track.
I take the envelope and walk out, my feet dragging.
The yard is busy now, men moving between buildings, horses being led out for training, and I keep my head down as I navigate through them.
No one pays me any attention, but I can feel their eyes on me when they think I'm not looking.
The surveillance room is exactly where he said it would be, a squat building with no windows and a single door.
I knock, and a voice inside tells me to enter.
I walk in, and the room is dark except for the glow of monitors lining the walls.
A man sits in front of them, his back to me, and he doesn't turn around when I approach.
"Delivery," I say, holding out the envelope.
He takes it without looking at me and waves me away.
I leave, closing the door behind me, and I stand there for a moment, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do now.
The envelope could have contained anything—money, instructions, threats—and I have no idea why Dimitri sent me to deliver it.
But I know it wasn't random.
He's testing me, watching to see if I'll run, if I'll try to open it, if I'll do anything other than what he told me to do.
I consider running.
There's a gap in the fence I cut last night, service roads that lead away from the track, places where I could slip through if I timed it right.
I've spent my entire life finding exits, mapping escape routes before I even know if I'll need them.
But as I scan the yard, I see his men positioned at every corner, the cameras mounted high on the buildings, the way every door I pass has someone nearby who glances at me without appearing to watch.
Dimitri isn't taking chances.
He's built a cage around this place that doesn't need bars.
I walk back across the yard, and when I report to the man who gave me the envelope, he nods and sends me back to the stables. I spend the rest of the day finishing the stalls, and by the time the sun starts to set, I'm so exhausted I can barely stand.
Dimitri finds me in the last stall, leaning against the wall, my hands shaking too badly to grip the pitchfork.
He doesn't say anything at first.
He looks at me, his gaze traveling over the filth covering my clothes, the blood on my palms, the sweat matting my hair to my forehead.
Then he reaches out and takes the pitchfork from my hands, setting it aside.
"You're done for today," he says.
I don't have the energy to respond.
I push off the wall and walk past him, my legs barely holding me upright.
He follows me out of the stables, and when we reach the tack room, he opens the door and gestures for me to go inside.
I collapse into the chair, too tired to care about anything but resting.
"You'll stay here tonight," he says. "Tomorrow, you'll do it again. And the day after that, and the day after that, until I decide what to do with you."
I look up at him and try to decide what he wants with me, studying his features as if somehow by a miracle, they'll reveal his motive.
His face is hard, but there's a look in his eyes that I can't decide whether I like it or not.
The others fall silent when he speaks.
I've watched it happen all day, the way conversations stop mid-sentence when he walks into a room, the way men step aside without being asked.
He doesn't demand respect through volume or theatrics.
Whatever things he's done to them in the past, they give it willingly.
And I realize, with a sinking clarity, that he could break me if he wanted to.
He could push me until there was nothing left, and I wouldn't know how to stop him.
That sort of power terrifies me.
But it's also so magnetic.
To have that much authority and sway in other people's minds is a scary and dangerous thing.
And Dimitri Vetrov doesn’t take crap from anyone.
It's kind of alluring when I think about it.
For whatever reason, this hardened man has taken me and has some sort of fixation on me.
In any normal world, a girl like me would have no place in his presence, let alone the sliver of a chance of escape.
But he hasn't hurt me yet, and if there's anything I've learned about these types of men based on my days on the street, it's that they only leave you alive if you're useful.
Thank God I'm useful to him for now.
But why?
And where is this going to lead me?